


Heavy Gloom - Jeanmarco

by emotionaldun



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Anxiety, Depression, Fanfic, M/M, Marco Bott/Jean Kirstein-centric, Moving, Multi, POV Jean Kirstein, attack on titan - Freeform, jeanmarco, shingeki no kyojin - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-20
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-09 12:41:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6907696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emotionaldun/pseuds/emotionaldun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>5.19.16</p><p>I still got to get used to this site, I have adapted to Wattpad too much since 2012. </p><p>Anyways, I get it's short but I wanted to start this before I lost my inspiration to write. I hope it's okay? Kind of a vent-series, if I say so myself, because angsty!jeanmarco just touches my soul. I'm that person, sorry. Maybe I'll add a summary later but right now it was so spur-of-the-moment that I can't just go into detail. </p><p>Enjoy?</p></blockquote>





	Heavy Gloom - Jeanmarco

"But you were young, you thought you didn't have to care about anyone  
But you're older now and wish that you could  
Cause you were young, you thought you didn't have to-" 

"Jean, be quiet! The neighbors can hear you sing like a dog, you know!" 

My neck turned before I even heard my mom lock the car's door, not even a second after I shut the trunk. A disgruntled sigh and scoff later, I re-positioned the bags on my shoulder, so I could be somewhat comfortable while trudging inside the new house with three tubs of my decor. It was not a shock to me that we would move - I mean, my parents have been divorced for almost three years, and both have partners now. What WAS a shock, though, was moving completely to a new house with my mom's new boyfriend (who I may or may not hate). Even if I "dislike" (hate) him, I wanted to escape the town that held me in their handcuffs since I was two, and start something new in my life. 

Finishing my favorite Front Bottoms' song, I was left to kick the shittily-painted wooden door on my own, scuffing my pure-black Vans. Of course, a wonderful start to a new house. Having a pity party within myself, I closed the door and looked around the house, taking in where everything was before I would get lost. To the left, the kitchen: three cupboards (for my extensive collection of coffee mugs, obviously), faded-blue wooden counters and a white oven and microwave pairing. The table was fully black, contrasting with the whole theme - especially since the chairs were more white than my skin. Great. 

Right: the living room, which had a black leather couch, spacious room for our TV & numerous game consoles, and a fair-sized coffee table. They did a nice job cleaning up the place, at least. The wooden floors are going to take a little while to get used to, though. That's why I have Harry Potter slippers, after all.

"Jean, honey, your room is up the stairs." 

"I kinda' figured that, mom." 

Rolling her eyes, she nudged my shoulder, making me almost drop one of the tubs full of my garbage (decorations). "You know what I meant. The last door on the right, the first one is the bathroom, and all that's on the left side is the linen closet. Kevin's and my room is down here." 

I wiggle my eyebrows, having somewhat of an excited revelation. "That means the whole first floor is mine, right? Who knows what I'll get down to doing?" 

Mom's sassy comebacks never fail to amaze me, because I always end up laughing or entirely dejected from them. 

"Yes, because my reclusive son who spends his time on his computer and phone will shock me." 

This time: a mixture of amazement AND dejection. Her sandals squeaked with every step on the freshly-polished floor, plopping down all the boxes in her hands once she reached the kitchen. I accept my mom's iconic insult, and start walking towards the dreadful stairs. As much as two-story houses are aesthetically pleasing, stairs are not what I would like to be greeted with every time I want to just get food. Sighing, I wobbled up the steps, counting each as a measurement for how much exercise I am getting. 

One, two, three, four, five.... 

I almost slipped, thinking there was a whole set of steps waiting for me, but I was greeted with a delightful surprise. Only FIVE steps. What great force is looking out for me? Aliens, is this you supporting me? I feel blessed, truly do. The hallway was not as bright as downstairs, but that could be because the walls are bare (seriously, who just paints the walls white and have nothing there? At least a photo frame or fire alarm...) Linen closet, bathroom, my room. No need to check out the linen closet, since I can barely fit one foot in there. 

The bathroom was more compacted than the one I had with my siblings back in Karanese, but efficient enough - if I find that mom or her trash boyfriend use my self-proclaimed personal restroom, I will fight them. The occasional germophobic tendencies I have came out, but I have no shame in that. Toilets are either ridiculously clean, or ridiculously repulsive, and personally, I prefer the first description by a long shot. After the million of years I spent checking out my bathroom, I continued slugging to my room, ending up having to maneuver open the door by clasping onto the door handle in my right arm's elbow crease, and spreading it open more with my foot. The room itself was not a terrible size - but imagining where my bed, TV, desk, nightstand, dresser, desk chair, and games would be... quite frightening. I would have barely enough room to exercise freely, but that is totally fine. I'm not athletic, why am I even thinking about that being a factor?! 

Situating the boxes down, I positioned my hands on my hips, taking in everything the room has to offer. A window in the farthest corner in the left, three outlets, and the closet being right next to the door. This could work, it could work. 

"Jeeaaannnn, Kevin wants you to get your mattress out of the truck!" 

Of course, because what late-fourty-year-old man couldn't move a simple mattress on his own? Even to the stairs? A few obscenities escaped before I faced my fate. 

\-------------------------------------------------------------------

"I started sleeping again  
Traded late nights and sheep for Vicodin" 

Dancing while hanging up my old B&W photos from junior year, I was blaring Sorority Noise from my shitty laptop that I'm too cheap to throw out. Hey, as long as it works, I'll pretty much keep it. Frugal life is the only life for me. After the taped photos were mounted above my favorite photo of my cat, Salem, I heaved out of relief, looking to the right. Mom bought me black curtains, and they are sort of small for the window itself, but it can work. With how hot the room was, I decided on a whim to open the window. Yeah, that's right, hear Sorority Noise as I am melting away in the summer heat. The white paneling of the next-door house was close, along with the window. Literally. I feel like I could stretch myself out and my ankles-feet would be inside the other room. Kind of a creepy thought, Jean. 

My room was decorated over the period of three days: day one, being positioning the bed and TV. Day two, painting the walls a nice shade of grey, screwing the dresser and nightstand, and seriously shoving the desk in the only place available. The chair does not fit. I decided it would be a chair for my clothes. And day three, today, I hung up my clothes, rummaged through the bins, and secured my posters and photos on the still-sticky walls. Everything is pretty much in place, I have no complaints truly about the order of my stuff. Maybe I'll take a very-needed break. 

The laptop went silent for a second, before I realized it was switching to whatever song was next in my playlist: Heavy Gloom, by one of my favorite bands of all time, The Story So Far. Fucking YES, the aliens are blessing me once more. Life is great. Flipping the fan's knob on to medium, I stretched my shoulders, before preparing to climb up the window. The blinds were thrown out by yours truly just a few hours ago, since they were not functioning correctly in the first place. Unsafely wobbling up onto my nightstand, I shoved up the windows, grabbing onto the edge of the drooping roof to reach the top. This would be a good time to note: I am an extremely clumsy person. And it is relevant now, as I am kicking off of my table, swinging from the weak grasp I had on the roof. Surprisingly - maybe it is my one in a lifetime luck - I made it up to the top, panting from the over-exertion. 

Trost's city-line was a clear sight from the top of the window, as I was gazing for an insurmountable period of time. I was enjoying the scenery more than I thought; I was always so used to seeing Karanese's acres of forests and greens, not even having ten-thousand residents in the town. It was the middle of fucking nowhere, I hated it. My intense loathing for everything and anything country stemmed from spending 16 years in that hell hole, and I still don't take back my consistent nagging towards my mom whenever she plays it. Who wants drawls and y'alls instead of screaming about loneliness and angst? Not me. Not sane people. Heavy Gloom was very audible from outside, as I could still hear it clear as day from up here. A pleasant scene, a pleasant sound to my ears, a pleasant smell of cinnamon. 

....

Cinnamon? 

I opened my dozing eyes, seeing the other window having been open. Oh well, if they're airing out their rad home cooking, I am honored to be able to take in every single scent. Cinnamon and caramel are my top two aromas, and nobody can tell me anything different. I'll fight anyone. While my nose was basking in the delightful cinnamon wafts, my feet were tapping on the cable-roof, going along to the beat of the song. Yes, my veins are on fire. Take me higher, Parker Cannon! You are simply KILLING me with those vocals. 

"Um, excuse me..." 

My eyes widened, shifting my attention to below me, the window where cinnamon keeps flying out of. Curly, disheveled hair, was popping out of the window, gracefully moving up onto the almost-connected roofs. The boy ran a hand through his unkempt hair, looking like he just got ready for school in two seconds. He was rocking arsenic-grey joggers, topped off with a wrinkled aztec-patterned pocket tee. It barely matches, I can't believe it. 

I'm not one to talk. 

Choking on my words as I took in what was happening, I straightened up my posture immediately, greeted by a chuckle from the boy. 

"Are you the new neighbor? I'm Marco, pleased to make your acquaintance." Marco's hand was extended out, followed by a genuine smile on his lips. I blinked a few times, trying to process what was happening, before I nodded and shook his hand quickly. Was my palm sweaty? Who knows. I don't even remember what happened to the waves of cinnamon - all I can smell is coffee. It's overwhelming, and I can't focus on anything else beyond that distinct difference. "What's your name?" 

Snap. 

"I-I, um.." A stuttering disaster, what else did you expected, Jean? Your whole LIFE is a disaster. "M-my name is J- Jean." Sheepishly grinning, I was scratching the back of my undercut, trying to decipher what was going on. 

"Jean..." The guy repeated a multitude of times, calming me down with every time he restarted. "That's a really cool name, way better than Marco." 

"N-n-no! Marco is a cool name, too! I never met a Marco before, in fact!" I got hasty and nervous, my fingers clinging at my black sweater's cuffs. Why am I wearing black in 5774928 degree weather? I always wear sweaters, cardigans are the only exception. Marco's eyes were fixated on my fidgeting fingers, wearing a serious face. Does he think that's weird? I'm naturally shaky and fidget without consciousness, it's not a weird practice or anything. Not like I'm in a cult. In my waves of crippling self doubt, his focus averted back onto me, a beam as blinding as the sun directed towards me. 

"Well, I'm glad I'm the first." Extending his legs, he jumped onto where I was sitting, leaning up against the boiling panels of the walls. He is not sweating as much as I am - granted, he is not wearing a sweater meant for winter - and looked more tan than I have ever seen on my own body. How is that even humanly possible?! How is it possible to have millions of peppered freckles just on a face?! 

Dozens of questions were flowing through my head as if I was an exam sheet, and I was hyper-conscious of his actions. The way he exuded confidence that was similar to an actor, like he was Chris Evans. Hell, he could be a Marvel superhero and I would not even be surprised. His build is preposterously huge, and he couldn't be an age much different than my own. Complete opposites in appearance, completely polarized in self-esteem. Seems like a problematic boundary, even if he is right next door to me. And sitting an inch away from me. Maybe an inch and two centimeters. 

Rubbing his nose, he craned his head towards my direction, as I gulped. Please don't ask why I'm wearing a sweater. 

"Do you want to get some ice cream?" 

If gaping mouths were a real thing that happened in real life, I would be doing that - sadly, my life is not a novelas, and I am not a very expressionable person, at least in my opinion. This guy, who I met a nanosecond ago, is asking me to go for ice cream, in 96 degree heat, with the most genuine countenance. 

"W-why would you ask that?" I avoided eye contact, picking at the seams on my cuffs, and the strings that were sticking out. 

"There's a Carvel, like, five minutes down the street. It's hot, I'm sweating buckets, and it would be nice to talk without having heat exhaustion." My gaze shifted up to meet his eyes, as they were closing due to his toothy smile. "Don't you think that would be better, Jean?" The dimples in his cheeks were prominent for the first time, along with the barely-visible crease lines that form when he talks. I wasn't aware that I had acquiesced to his offer before he was brushing off dust from his joggers. When did he even stand up? I looked down - hell, when did I stand up? Am I in some black hole's time warp?! Time machine? "Alright, I'll be down in two minutes, let me go get my wallet. Do you mind walking there?" 

\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Holy shit. 

I thought my infatuation with ice cream was hardcore already - but now that I am here, in the infamous Carvel... I feel like I have been living a lie. Several flavors and options were waiting to be chosen, and a few looked completely foreign to me. Nonetheless, all seemed delicious. My eyes were trailing across the tiny shop, contemplating what I would order for losing my Carvel-virginity. In the back, they even had soft serve machines. SOFT SERVE. A religious experience is when you realize you have the chance to order TRUE. MOTHER. FUCKING. SOFT. SERVE. Heaven is a place on this hellish planet called Earth, and it is right here, in this very ice cream parlor. Maybe I found the love of my life. 

"How can I help you today?" The employee inquired, gaining my attention. She was rocking the ponytail look, having a few askew baby hairs and bangs brushed forward, varying in shades of brownish-reds. Bambi? "Oh, Marco! You here for more Super Smash battles? We got the game in the back, it's been a slow day for a Sunday." 

Marco's soft laugh bounces back and forth between my ears, as he put his right hand up in disagreement. Her face looked more disappointed than I was after finding out my dad cheated on my mom. That intense. 

The pair of beige moccasins were skittering across the floor, as Marco halted his brilliant chuckle. "Actually, I brought my new neighbor along." He showcased me off to his friend. Showcased. Like I was on Deal or No Deal, THAT kind of showcasing. "Jean, this is Sasha, my friend for ages." 

"Yo." Her hand was propped up, as a cheesy grin was situated on her slightly-chubby cheeks. 

This is kind of awkward, but not terrible - at least I can deal with greetings. 

"Hello," I bow my head, coming up fast. "I-it's nice to meet you, Sasha." 

"Oh my God, you're so cute!!!" 

"Huh?!-" 

Before I could brace myself, she pounced over the counter, tackling me into the glass shelves full of flying saucers and cakes. Rough finger pads were rubbing my face, as she was staring three centimeters away from my face. I tried to escape, I really did, but both of Sasha's feet were guarding the outsides of my Vans, while manhandling me. 

"Marcooooo, you never told me you made a new friend! He's so emo, just look! He could be a John Green character, for all we know!" I scowl at that, Marco awkwardly rubbing his hand on his forearm. Sasha's head turns back to me, eyes oozing out curiosity. "Right, Jean? Are you secretly going to be casted in Looking For Alaska? Maybe a school play about it? You look so intimidating!" 

After probably thirty billion hours of claiming I would be an actor in the next John Green book adaption, she went back behind the counter. I feel like I needed my handy dandy inhaler, but I survived. Surprisingly. Sasha's enthusiasm seems detrimental, because a blonde girl in the back scolded her for 'harassing a valuable customer again.' I didn't want to find out what happened to the one - or ones - prior to my encounter. Marco bumped me with his hip, snapping me back to reality, and saying I could order first. Bless him. 

"Um, I think I'll order... a vanilla soft-serve, medium cup." Whipping my eyes across the toppings list, I was reading at the speed of light, and prepared my decision in an instant. "And can I have caramel, cookie dough, and oreos for my toppings?" 

"Of course, honeyboo." Sasha's affectionate slang made me cringe, but she could whip up my order in just seconds. If I had the world's most accurate timer, I would use it and count how fast she made my cup. Probably twenty seconds, top. And she included a shit ton of whipped cream for no price.

I could shed thousands of tears from her kindness, but then again, I was also manhandled. It's fifty-fifty at the moment. As soon as she placed the lid on my cup, she looked over at Marco, waiting for what he was about to request. 

"One medium-sized coffee-soft serve Carvelanche, please. Along with cookie dough, caramel, oreos, M&Ms, rainbow sprinkles, and gummy bears. Molte grazie." 

What the fuck? That was as automatic as those robocalls you get from fraud companies! And it was detailed! And he missed no beat in saying that WHOLE thing. I think Marco might be a robot. 

He can't be human, just look at him. LISTEN to him. 

I declare he's living a lie. 

Just as speedy as he said his order, Sasha had it complete. What a dynamic duo, if I had to say so. It's frightening, amusing, and a bit damaging to my pride. It takes me twenty hours to just tie my shoes. 

The total cost of our two desserts was $9.76, which was a bit shocking to me. The prices were different on the boards - maybe it was a sale that I was unaware of, maybe it was special treatment. However, when I was reaching into my hoodie's pouch to get my wallet, Marco lightly dragged my arm back out, shaking his head in disapproval. His card was already being swiped through by Sasha, and I was giving him my deadly squint. Marco already extended a friendly introduction, offered ice cream in the first place, and accepted the uncomfortable silence between us on the walk here. How could he go even FURTHER, and PAY for both of us? I feel like a loser for making him do everything. 

I'll pay him back, I swear. 

But for now, I'll settle with the death stare. Shooting judgmental lasers throughout these almost-sealed eyes. Politely waving, Sasha handed us our ice cream, and the two of us went out from the enter door - too late before noticing the difference. At least nobody else was in the store at the moment, otherwise I would have died. Marco's detrimentally slow pace was soothing in a way, as he took a seat on the sidewalk. A laundromat was right next door to Carvel, along with a diner on the other side. Seems like this is a bopping spot, but it is the first place I have been to since moving to Trost. 

Marco was patting a spot for me to sit down, and I followed his instruction, having the spoon in my mouth while squatting and miserably floundered onto the boiling concrete next to him. His spoon reminded me of the McFlurry one, just not as bulky. Way more efficient, in my opinion. 

"Sorry, I didn't think Sash had a shift this early today. It's usually late at night or after school." I nodded as he spoke, his eyes grazing on my cup. "And I can't believe you got such a weeny tiny cup." 

"Oi, it was my first time here, thank you very much!" I shoved my spoon in his face, while licking whatever residue of caramel I had on my lower lip. His boisterous laugh once again brought my ears to destruction - but in a good way, if that makes sense. "She seems nice: a bit too hyper for me, but friendly. Good people, you and her." 

"I am flattered, Jean." 

His ice cream was all mixed in together, despite the cup being the size of my face. What would all that candy even taste like together- 

"Do you want a taste?" He leaned in a tad bit, tapping the cup three times for effect. 

A bit of my germophobe side was coming out, but I was tempted. 

REALLY tempted. 

Before I could even say what I wanted to do, he switched our cups, taking a little scoop of my own into his own mouth. First of all, what the fuck. That was not "little," that was half the fucking cup! I choked when he stuck out his tongue afterwards, as if he was a dog. "Come on, do I need to feed you like a little baby?" Marco's words struck me out of my epiphany, as he was maneuvering his hands into my own, scooping up some of his ice cream, and shakily traveling it up to my mouth. "Say aaaaaah~" 

And, boy, did it taste like I just ate the fucking sun, moon, and all the stars. It was amazing - no, divinely palatable. My tastebuds were doing the cha-cha slide, savoring every single explosion of flavors that came along with it. I mumbled 'holy shit' as I was swallowing the unbelievably mouthwatering ice cream, getting a snort in response from the guy who ordered the heavenly item in the first place. 

"Marco, my savior, I pledge allegiance to you!" I bowed to him, tears forming by my eyes. Dramatic responses is my specialty, and I got a first-hand glance at what Jesus truly looks like. He's tall, extremely tan, decorated with bestrewed freckles, curly hair, a body of a superhero... Marco. 

\--------------------------------------------------------------------------

Slumping onto my bed, I couldn't hold back the rare smirk on my face. 

This was the first time in a while that I had... fun. A truly entertaining day, in fact. My standard life was just waking up, dealing with school and wearing a poker face so I didn't look like I was falling apart, and going home, spending my time on the internet for the rest of the day. This was how I lived since sixth grade, and if things were different, maybe I never would have become fragile but emotionless at the same time. A heart of stone but a brain like drugs, that was my motto. I can't even remember the last time I had such a happy day, none of my 'friends' had made me feel like that, probably since I was nine. 

Squiggling on the bed, I was kicking off my Vans and slip-on socks, along with my sweaty jeans. Just boxers and a sweater, baby. But then I remember, Kevin could walk in any second - don't know why, but he could - and I immediately grab the closest pajama pants I had, dancing my legs in them. The fan was blowing at maximum-speed, my hair flopping around like a mop. I could care less, I'm at home, with nobody to impress. I can triple-chin ALL I want now. 

My legs kicked up my light blanket, as I burritoed myself within in, as far as my legs would go without my feet peeking through. Even if I am evaporating from heat waves, I still wear a blanket. One comfort takes priority against the other. Once I settle into my hermit position, my mom swings the door open, startling me. My eyes quickly scatter to where she's standing, her hands holding a plate steak. 

I hate how she cooks steak. 

"I made dinner, Jean." 

I wanted to ask if Kevin was home, I wanted to ask why she constantly makes the food I hate to appeal to Kevin's likes only. I wanted to ask why her steak ranged from hockey pucks to the flesh flowing in my own body. 

"Thanks, I'll be down in a few." Was all I managed to say, and she nodded, leaving the room immediately. As much as I love my mom, and her sassy nature she lets out once in a while... there is plenty that I don't appreciate. How she puts me down for anything and everything I do or don't do, how she judges me for my sensitive, picky nature, or how she can be a hypocrite when it comes to topics I'm passionate about. Everyone has something they can't stand about their parents, but sometimes I wonder if this is crossing the line of healthy and toxic. 

In the end, I scoot my feet into my Harry Potter slippers, trek down to the kitchen wrapped in my blanket, and eat in peace. Kevin is not there, and mom sits with me, asking if I want to go food shopping with her tomorrow at ShopRite. Peacefully uncomfortable is how I can best explain this situation: where you are sinking in a feeling of numbness, but it's not positive nor negative. I'm completely conscious, but focused on various outside forces. This is how my life is. This is how my life was. And I highly doubt much will change, even if we are hours away from where my life was sucked away from me. 

All I'm thinking about is Marco and Sasha, and how they'll eventually turn on me. Everyone does in the end. And how disgusting my medicine tastes with the horrid steak mom cooked.

**Author's Note:**

> 5.19.16
> 
> I still got to get used to this site, I have adapted to Wattpad too much since 2012. 
> 
> Anyways, I get it's short but I wanted to start this before I lost my inspiration to write. I hope it's okay? Kind of a vent-series, if I say so myself, because angsty!jeanmarco just touches my soul. I'm that person, sorry. Maybe I'll add a summary later but right now it was so spur-of-the-moment that I can't just go into detail. 
> 
> Enjoy?


End file.
